


An odd tale of an odd pair

by NaTak (IReadYouWrite)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M, POV Child, POV Outsider, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7680892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IReadYouWrite/pseuds/NaTak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Battle of the Black Gate, Sauron is defeated but not all conflict is resolved. Gimli and Legolas still have something unspoken between them. Maybe a young girl's curiosity will help reveal it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bright meetings

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like there should be many reservations regarding this, but I shall just say I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Beta'ed by Amlia B.

It is a sunny day in Minas Tirith. The city glows, as if it knew a new and brighter age is soon to come.

Mistiel cares little for good omens, though, for she has places to go on that morning.

Despite being small for her age, she is six summers already, and skips through streets and passages with the ability and experience of someone who had spent their whole life walking the same paths.

Her auburn, bushy hair bounces on her back as she runs, and – although dark thoughts still loom over her – she still manages to laugh, happy.

She does not know much about matters such as warfare, and battle, and royalty, yet she knows enough to understand her people has just won one of the most important wars of all times.

Mistiel sees that in the eyes of her family and friends and neighbors. In the way their smiles are unguarded, and their laughter relieved. In the way her mother hugs her before she goes to bed– not the vicious, protective grip she used to pull, but an embrace full of love and hope. In the way the tradespeople on the market actually take the time to negotiate and bargain the prices of their merchandize. In the way the soldiers – though weary and hurt – grin, proud and cheerful, as they pass by on their daily rounds in the lower town.

And as if celebrating a great military victory was not enough, the city would soon stage a great wedding as well.

Mistiel grins widely as the thought crosses her mind. Their long lost king – a man said to be wise, and powerful, and kind – is to marry none other than an elf. An actual, living, breathing elf! The young girl could barely contain her excitement at the possibility of seeing a being that, until then, has only figured in tales and old stories.

As she takes a short cut to avoid the crowd in the main street, Mistiel daydreams about what an elf actually looked like. Possibly, that explains why the normally quick girl is too late to stop from colliding with a big, hairy, bulky form.

“Careful there, lassie,” says a grave voice.

When Mistiel looks up, she finds herself face to face with an unusually short, sturdy man. Both his voluminous auburn hair–a tone lighter than Mistiel’s – and beard are braided. The girl has to contain the impulse to reach out and touch the bright and colorful stones that adorn his locks.

Clear and resonant laugher startles Mistiel from her reverie.

“Worry not, little lady,” the second voice says. “Master Dwarf here is at fault, for as he admires stone and brick he wanders around without a care for where he goes.”

Both gingers turn to look at the man that approaches unhurriedly – one with an expression of fond annoyance and the other with pure wonder.

“You are not a man, you are an elf!” Mistiel blurts unthinking, pointing.

The shorter man – no, the dwarf – chuckles at that, while the elf suddenly stops smiling and frowns, bewildered. 

“I am,” he says, but sounds somewhat uncertain.

Still chuckling softly, the dwarf adds, “and I am a dwarf.” He inclines his head.

Mistiel smiles. “Oh, I knew that!” She says assertively. The girl pauses for a moment, considering. “I am a human,” she declares.

“Just as I had suspected,” the dwarf says, nodding sagely.

Mistiel nods back, however her attention is already drawn back to the elf. He is so pretty! Prettier than she thought elves would be. He has incredibly pointy ears. His hair is long, and straight, and smooth… She notices he wears it braided too, and wonders if the she-elf who is to marry the king will wear beautiful braids such as those in the wedding.

“Do elven princesses like braids too?” Mistiel asks, looking up at the elf.

“Excuse me?” He sputters. He seems confused, and the girl speculates why would that be.

The dwarf just laughs at the elf. The elf glares back. They seem to communicate something with their eyes, and Mistiel concludes theirs is an odd friendship indeed.

“I just thought,” Mistiel proceeds, seeing as no response is forthcoming, “that braided hair would match a wedding gown fairly well.”

The elf continues looking perplexed, but a look of understanding downs on the dwarf’s face.

“I think you are quite right,” he says, drawing her attention. “We will suggest it to lady Arwen, if the opportunity presents itself.”

Mistiel’s eyes widen. “You know the elf princess?” She asks in fascination.

The dwarf chuckles, and says “aye, we do.” Then he cocks his head towards he silent elf. “Master Elf here is a princeling himself,” he reveals.

The girl’s eyes widen even more and she is struck speechless for one second. “Are you a prince too?” She asks the dwarf.

“Me? No, no,” he replies, shaking his head. “I’m a warrior and a crafter, but no prince.”

“I understand,” Mistiel says smiling softly. “I’m not a princess either.” Then, as if finally remembering herself, she curtsies sloppily.

“I’m so sorry!” She says, embarrassed. “I forgot. My mother always says–Well, anyway.” She smiles. “I’m Mistiel, daughter of Miluinis.”

The dwarf laughs openly, and the elf smiles, as if amused. The girl just grins back, relived she has not offended her interlocutors.

“Well met, Mistiel, daughter of Miluinis,” he says, bowing. “I’m Gimli, son of Glóin. At your service.”

The elf bows as well. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mistiel. I’m Legolas of the Greenwood.”

The girl smiles openly at them both. “I’m pleased to meet you too,” she replies. “And I’m sorry for bumping into you earlier, Master Gimli.” Embarrassment colors her cheeks and her tone. “This passage is rarely used, so I hardly ever meet anyone else when I take this way.”

“It’s no problem, lassie,” he reassures easily. “We dwarves are strong and resilient, no harm was done.”

“Strong and resilient dwarves may be,” Legolas cuts in. “But lost they become when thrown inside the great cities of men,” he says provocatively.

Gimli turns to the elf fully. “These passages are like maze! No markings to indicate the way out.” He mutters of the insolence of elves and inaptitude of men. Then he snorts. “Show us the right path then, oh all-knowing elfling,” he taunts, glaring.

Legolas hesitates, and Gimli smirks victoriously. 

Mistiel giggles.

“You two are funny,” she states matter-of-factly.

The elf inclines his head to her, conceding the point with a smile. “And lost,” he adds somewhat ruefully. “Would you happen to know how to reach the market, Mistiel?” He asks, looking down at her.

The girl’s eyes light up at the prospect of helping her new acquaintances.

“Of course,” she replies. “I’m going there myself. You can accompany me.”

She guides them through streets and alcoves, and soon enough they arrive at the principal market of the city. Mistiel chatters amicably, pointing out things she thinks interesting, presenting the most well known stalls, commenting which tradesperson is kinder, which is funnier, which is grumpier…

If their strange trio receives incredulous looks as they walk by, the young girl is none the wiser.

“Oh, I must stop here,” Mistiel suddenly interrupts her chatter as they stand in front of a stall full of plants and herbs. 

A wrinkled old woman greets them.

“Hello there, Mistiel” she says. And it is a testament to her poor eyesight that she notices not how unusual are the two figures who hover behind the girl. “Your mother’s regular order?” She asks the girl.

“Yes, please, ma’am,” Mistiel replies, handing over a few coins, retrieving a small bundle from wrinkly hands and guarding it safely in a pocket in her skirts.

“And what can I do for the two… gentlemen?” The woman inquires, leaning forwards, apparently realizing there is something odd about them.

Elf and dwarf exchange an amused glance, and the taller takes a scrap of paper from his pocket.

“We are in need of aloe vera and horsetail, if you would have it” he says.

The woman nods somberly. “Yes, most of the warriors are in need of those. As it is, we are facing a shortage of such plants, but I think I do have some horsetail left… Here it is.” 

She extracts a strange looking, green plant from a hidden pouch and extends it over the stall, placing it on Legolas’ hand.

As their hands brush, the woman frowns. “You have not the hands of a warrior, but the ones of a noble maiden!” She exclaims, surprised.

Gimli laughs unabashedly at that, throwing his head back. Mistiel giggles as well, hiding her mouth behind her hands.

The tips of Legolas’ pointy ears become pink, but he says nothing, simply delicately pushing some coins into the old lady’s hand.

Between giggles, the young girl explains. “He is not a maiden. He’s an elf!”

The woman looks even more taken back by that.

“Forgive me for my foolishness, my lord,” she says, bowing, a hint of fear in her voice.

“There is nothing to forgive, my lady,” Legolas replies gracefully, ears still a bit pink.

As they part ways, Gimli relentlessly teases Legolas, who just mutters snappy retorts under his breath, too lowly for Mistiel to catch.

They have walked through most of the market when the girl turns to the still bickering friends.

“Have you fought on the battle?” She blurts, somewhat uncertain, interrupting them.

Elf and dwarf become grave at that. They nod.

“Aye,” Gimli adds, “on this and many others.”

Mistiel continues walking, but her steps are cheerless and her shoulders are hunched.

“Are you hurt? Is that the reason you need healing plants?” She asks at last, fearful, without looking back.

“Not at all,” the elf assures her, then hesitates. “The herb is for a friend who is badly wounded, but is likely to recover.”

Mistiel says nothing for a moment, then turns and smiles weakly before continuing moving. “I hope the herbs help your friend.”

“So do I,” Legolas whispers.

But still the girl does not recover her spirit, for dark thoughts threaten to overwhelm her.

Mistiel only notices she has stopped, when long, pale fingers bring her chin up. Kind, deep, blue eyes meet her grey ones.

“Who are the herbs you bought for?” Legolas asks, gently, kneeing down. He takes her hands into his slim and smooth ones.

The girl looks away; unshed tears burning her eyes.

“My brother,” she mumbles so, so lowly she fears she would not be understood. “He fought on the battle too.”

But the elf nods understandingly. “Your brother must be very brave,” he comments appreciatively.

Mistiel shakes her head viciously, tears flying. “He is incredibly foolish.” She holds back a sob. “He is too small to fight. Only three years my elder,” she explains. “Slingshots do nothing to harm orcs!” Anger and frustration make her voice waver.

Through blurred eyes she sees Gimli leaning down towards her. 

“I find that,” he begins, voice soft, but charged with emotion, “when the safety of one we care about is at risk, we do everything we can – and even try to do what we cannot – to protect them. It may be foolish,” he concedes, “but I like to think it’s also terribly brave. Do not judge your brother so harshly.” 

Legolas nods in agreement, and Gimli rests one hand on his friend’s shoulder, clutching at it. They turn to each other and their eyes speak of trust and friendship, and Mistiel knows not all what they share, but understands enough.

When they finally return their gaze to her, they find her staring wonderingly at them. Eyes still wet, but a tender smile brightening up her face. 

“I think,” she says, “I’d like to think it brave as well.”

Then she laughs. All traces of sadness relenting.

“Mithion will not believe it when I tell him I’ve met an elf and a dwarf!” Mistiel exclaims, jumping up. “He will be so jealous,” she giggles. 

Legolas and Gimli smile at her. The elf rises from his crouched position, and looks up at the sky.

“I believe we grow late, Master Dwarf,” he points out.

“I believe that, unfortunately, you are correct, Master Elf,” the other agrees. Then he turns to Mistiel.

“It was a pleasure, little miss,” Gimli says, inclining his head. “But now we must go. Our friends await us.”

“Thank you for being our guide,” Legolas adds.

Mistiel curtsies. “And I thank you for your courage and readiness in protecting my home,” she says formally, a grave look on her face. It rapidly melts away. “I hope to see you again someday!” 

She sprints away, waving her hand.

That is the first time Mistiel meets Gimli and Legolas. But not the last.


	2. Clouded purposes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Battle of the Black Gate, Sauron is defeated but not all conflict is resolved. Gimli and Legolas still have something unspoken between them. Maybe a young girl's curiosity will help reveal it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by Amlia B.

It’s cloudy; the second time Mistiel encounters the dwarf and the elf. 

It has rained relentlessly during the night, which always frightens the girl a little, but the adults say it is a good thing, the rain, for it will help wash away the remains from the battle.

It is now past midday, and though the drizzle has stopped, the streets are still slippery; therefore the ginger cannot dash with her habitual enthusiasm.

Mistiel has been charged with an important task. Her mother’s brother had forgotten his packed lunch when he left their home that morning, so the girl is to deliver it to him.

She is quite excited, for her uncle is a soldier and is currently in the training grounds with the rest of his company. Mistiel rarely is permitted to go there so she plans to relish such an opportunity. 

The girl gets more than she’d bargained for. On the training grounds she happens upon not only the soldiers of the kingdom but also the two unique acquaintances she made the other day. Legolas and Gimli.

As the men rest, chat and eat, replenishing their strengths, dwarf and elf occupy one of the training pits, sparring.

Sitting on benches nearby, soldiers cheer them on, apparently impressed by the fight they witness.

Mistiel approaches, careful to stay concealed within the shadows of the alley between two battlements.

She likes watching men spar. The way their weapons clash against each other, the fierce and vicious look on the combatants’ faces… It’s exciting without being frightening.

Legolas and Gimli’s fighting, though, it’s something else.

The dwarf sways a big, heavy war hammer, strong and solid arms making it look almost easy. His movements are short and efficient. He does not move an inch more than he must to achieve his purpose. Each blow is delivered with the utmost tenacity.

As for the elf, he wields a long, white dagger that, in truth, would look frail, if it wasn’t for the certainty with which it blocked time and time again the hammer’s blows. The elf’s movements are light, and fleeting; he seems to be dancing, rather than fighting. His limbs arc in graceful motions, avoiding deadly blows and delivering them with equal ability. He has no qualms with whirling around and leaping right and left.

Though their movements are ferocious, their eyes spark with delight and pleasure. They are enjoying themselves.

As the fight picks up, the men’s clapping and whistling get louder and louder. Their experience seems to detect a winner will be proclaimed soon.

They are proved right when, after a few minutes, the dwarf manages to land a solid strike near the handle of the elf’s knife, making he lose his grip on the weapon for no more than a second, but what is enough for the smaller one to press his advantage and win.

Gimli is received with cheering and impressed looks. It appeared he had not been expected to win.

As the soldiers prepare to continue with their practicing, the two friends sit on one of the unoccupied benches, heaving. 

Mistiel is just close enough to make out their words.

“My congratulations, Master Dwarf,” Legolas is saying with a tired smile. “It seems my dagger has been bested by your hammer.”

Gimli snorts, as he gulps water down from a flagon.

“You deceive me not, ridiculous elf,” the dwarf replies, frowning at him. “I know you have not been yourself for the past couple of days. Hadn’t you been lost inside this crazy head of yours I wouldn’t have managed to hit such a blow.” 

For a moment, Legolas looks shocked, before he masks his emotions. The elf turns his gaze away, towards the clouds.

“I’m not some inexperienced warrior to let my troubles conquer me during a fight,” the elf finally says, sharply. “You won for your own merits, Gimli.” 

Legolas then let his features soften and his tone wane. “But you are not wrong, mellon nîn” he murmurs, looking down, “I’ve been rather…conflicted.”

Mistiel wonders at that strange sounding word and tries to replicate it, but she probably butchers it.

“Is it that you miss your trees and your stars?” Gimli asks, placing a hand on the elf’s knee comfortingly. “Is it that you miss your kin?”

Legolas shakes his head, but says nothing.

“Is it…” Gimli hesitates. “Is it the gulls that sing to you and call you away?” He finally asks, as if afraid of the answer.

Mistiel doesn’t know what gulls are, but she suddenly despises them.

At that, the elf’s face grows somber, but he doesn’t have a chance to reply, for there is a man approaching them.

The still hidden girl frowns, she knows not who he is, but the soldier doesn’t seem to mean well. He walks with his chin high and chest puffed, a smirk in his lips. He has a cocky air on him.

“Master Dwarf, Master Elf,” he greets without bowing. “Congratulations on your match. This grounds have not seen such ability in a long, long time.”

“Thank you, lad,” Gimli responds amicably, while Legolas merely nods in acknowledgment. 

“I was wondering, Master Dwarf,” the man begins, “if you’d care to test your hammer against my sword.”

Gimli promptly goes to his feet, but Legolas steps in before he can reply.

“As exciting as such a match might be,” the elf says impassively, “I believe it’s only fair to wait for Gimli to regain his breath. He has been exerting himself for hours, while you are clearly well-rested.”

And it is truth, while the elf has quickly recovered from their sparing; the mortal has not such an advantage. Sweat drops wet his face and beard, while his breath is still noticeably laborious.

Mistiel suddenly realizes the man is trying to fight Gimli when the dwarf is at disadvantage, and is grateful for Legolas’ interference.

“Or better yet,” the elf continues, without waiting for a reply, “maybe you’d care to test your sword against my dagger. First to draw blood wins?” He challenges.

The man looks taken aback for a moment, before regaining his wits and smirking.

“I accept your terms,” he replies confidently and leaves to go fetch his sword.

As Legolas prepares for battle, Gimli, irritated, turns to him.

“I do not need you to coddle me, impertinent elf!” He spats, annoyed. “I’m well capable of taking on some meek man myself.”

“I’m well aware, my obstinate dwarf,” his friend retorts. “But the man’s intentions are fool and you, mellon nîn, are weary.”

Gimli grumbles something in response, but Mistiel is to far away to catch it, she can only hear the soft laugh Legolas gives in response.

“Rest assure,” he is saying, “I will.”

Then the time for chatting is over and the match begins.

It’s clear from the start that the elf has the upper hand. His blows are stronger and quicker; the man is no match for him. He does try though. He concentrates fully at the task at hand, and looks for any opportunity to land a solid blow. There are none. Soon the soldier is panting, and his movements become sloppier and sloppier. The man barely lasts ten minutes.

Legolas easily strikes the sword off his opponent’s hand, making it fly out of his reach. Then, with precision, he makes a shallow but sure cut on the man’s right cheek with the edge of his long knife.

“Well fought,” the elf says, withdrawing his weapon, a smirk adorning his lips. Mistiel silently cheers him on, jumping excitedly.

As the elf turns his back to the man and begins strolling towards Gimli, Mistiel notices a sudden motion in the man’s direction, something sharp glinting…

The girl runs forward, a warning shout ready on her lips…

Gimli is faster.

Quicker than lightening, he grabs one small knife from his undercoat and throws it, hitting with accuracy the hidden knife the defeated man had just tried to attack the elf with. With a clatter, both weapons fall to the floor, harmless. 

The training ground is, for once, silent.

Legolas shoots the soldier with a disgusted look, as he bends down to pick his friend’s knife.

“This is beneath a warrior of Gondor,” the elf spats before walking away.

Those who have witnessed their companion disgraceful act begin to mutter between themselves, clearly angry and ashamed for such behavior.

Mistiel’s heart is still pounding in her ears when Legolas passes Gimli his knife.

“I was prepared for that attack,” the elf is saying, “there was no need–”

The dwarf interrupts him. “Aye,” he says, “I’m well aware.”

They stare at each other for a moment, before Legolas stern face dissolves into a grin. He inclines him head.

“I thank you, my friend,” he says.

Gimli merely chuckles in response.

Then, as one, they turn towards Mistiel.

“It appears, Master Dwarf,” Legolas begins, nearing the girl. “That we were being watched.”

“Indeed, Master Elf,” Gimli agrees. “What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?” He enquired, leaning down when he is in front of her.

Mistiel looks between their inquisitive eyes, embarrassed. 

“I–” She is at a loss of words. “You two fight so well!” She finally exclaims, surprising them. They laugh.

“Why, thank you, lassie,” Gimli says, smiling kindly.

Mistiel then remembers something. “Master Legolas,” she asks, “what does ‘melonim’ mean?”

That startles a laugh out of the elf.

“It is pronounced ‘mellon nîn’,” he says clearly and slowly. “It is Sindarin for ‘my friend’.”

The young girl nods understandingly. “Mellon nîn.” She tries quietly.

“Mê benthen, gwennig,” Legolas responds with a small smile. At her inquiring face he explains. “It means ‘well said, little lady’.”

“Thank you!” She beams at him, then frowns. “How do I thank you in Sindarin?” The girl asks.

“You can say ‘ci athe’,” the elf replies.

Mistiel grins and experiments the foreign words. They taste weird on her tongue.

“Help me, Mahal,” Gimli mutters. “Another one speaking in this elvish gibberish,” he complains.

Legolas laughs freely. “N'uir thiad gîn 'ell,” he says, eyeing Gimli with mirth in his face.

The dwarf huffs in exasperation.

Mistiel cocks her head, deep in thought.

“Elves speak Sindarin,” she states. “What language do the dwarves speak? Or you speak the common tongue like me?” She enquires curiously.

Gimli nods sagely at her, stroking at his beard.

“An excellent question, lassie,” he says approvingly. “When in the presence of outsides,” the dwarf explains, “we speak only Weston, but when we are between kin, we speak the ancient and secret language Khuzdul, which was taught to us by Mahal, the Valar who crafted the dwarves.”

Mistiel nods, marveling at him. The dwarf grins back, proud.

Legolas leans towards her – mischief in his eyes – and mutters in her ear – but loud enough of Gimli to hear. “Such a secretive folk, dwarves are! No wonder such bizarre tales spread about them. Have you heard the one which claims there are no dwarf ladies, and therefore dwarves’ children are sculptured from stone itself?”

Gimli pushes the elf away. “Listen not, little lady!” He exclaims, glaring at the grinning Legolas. “This one only sputters nonsense.”

Mistiel giggles at their antics. Odd friends indeed, she thinks to herself, observing as they bicker. Then she turns pensive.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she says, and as Gimli is mumbling “thank you. Look, elf, at least the girl–”, Mistiel continues, “if there weren’t dwarven ladies, dwarves wouldn’t have anyone to marry,” which silences the dwarf, who just shakes his head, as if drained.

“Indeed,” Legolas concurs. “Or maybe…” He hesitates. “Maybe dwarves marry between themselves.”

Mistiel considers that for a moment. “Maybe,” she says, but does not look convinced.

The elf notices this. “Elves sometimes marry elves of the same gender,” he offers.

The human looks startled at that, and Gimli is somewhat surprised as well.

“I did not know that,” the dwarf comments nonchalantly.

“It’s not a common practice,” Legolas admits, “but it is known to happen.”

“I see…” Mistiel mumbles, deep in thought. Then her eyes brighten up, as she remembers something. “Oh!” She exclaims. “It sometimes happens with men too,” she says, then lowers her tone. “But I think I am not supposed to know about it.”

The elf nods understandingly. “It happens among elves and men, it’s only logical to happen among dwarves as well,” he says casually, even as his eyes search for Gimli, who has turned a shade red.

“Well…” The dwarf begins, as two pair of curious eyes lock on him. “Yes,” he finally admits, “it does happen. We have, in fact, considerably less females then other races,” he confides, “so it is somewhat common for male dwarves to find comfort among themselves.” Then he frowns. “But we are not made from mud!” He says categorically.

Mistiel giggles and Legolas snickers at that. And as elf and dwarf exchange a tender and speculative look, the girl suddenly has the thought that the whole conversation had just been an excuse for something else.

She is distracted from that idea as another issue surfaces on her puzzled mind. 

“What about marriage between different races?” She wonders innocently out loud. “I mean… The king is a man, and he is marrying an elf.” The girl looks at the two friends, who seem to be avoiding each other’s gaze. “So an elf can marry a man. But can a man marry a dwarf? Can a dwarf marry an elf?” Mistiel asks. 

Both Legolas and Gimli look stricken at that. They are saved from answering, though, for a blond, handsome man approaches.

“Uncle!” Mistiel exclaims, running happily to him. Then her face falls. “Uncle…” She murmurs. As they meet, she is quick to speak up. “I’m so sorry, uncle! I’ve brought you your lunch, but I got caught up watching Master Gimli and Master Legolas fight, and then there was the attack, and then I learned Sindarin, and then we talked about marriage…” The girl trails off. “I’m truly sorry.”

Faeldor looks strict for a moment longer, before his face dissolves in one of amused resignation.

“It’s alright,” he says with a sign, “just be more attentive next time.”

Mistiel nods enthusiastically, before turning around.

“Look uncle,” she says, pointing. “Those are Master Gimli and Master Legolas, who I told you about. They are mellons nîns.”

The girl completely ignores Faeldor’s bewildered expression as she pulls him by the hand to introduce him to her friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know Sindarin. All phrases were taken from http://realelvish.net/phrasebooks/sindarin/woodelf/


	3. Starlit confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Battle of the Black Gate, Sauron is defeated but not all conflict is resolved. Gimli and Legolas still have something unspoken between them. Maybe a young girl's curiosity will help reveal it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by Amlia B.

The night is clear and the stars shine bright upon the sky. 

The air is cool, but not unpleasantly so. The great city of Minas Tirith bursts with unusual activity for it’s the day of King Aragorn and Queen Arwen’s wedding. Soon it will no longer be, but the celebrations shall continue into dawn nonetheless, for the people rejoice not only over their monarchs’ union. They rejoice over the arrival of a new age, their age.

Mistiel knows it not, but prosperous and happy days are to come. Or maybe she does suspect. 

That night she dances with her mother and her uncle to some foreign but beautiful tune, she plays with her still but swiftly recovering brother – the girl magnanimously lets him win their games–, she tastes different, delicious food, she sees noble men and women, she catches a glimpse of tiny men, barely taller then her – hobbits, she is told –, she spots Master Gimli and Master Legolas near the king at some point. Gimli is the only dwarf attending the celebrations, but Legolas is not alone. 

Elves! There are so many of them, dressed splendidly, moving with grace and elegance, singing with soft, melodious voices…

Yet, Queen Arwen outshines them all. Her smile is the kindest, her laughter the most sincere, her words the gentlest… Mistiel is certain that, for a moment, the queen’s gaze locks onto the girl’s face and the fond nod she gives is meant for her and no one else.

And the king! King Aragorn is strong and fit, he is handsomely dressed, and the impressive sword on his hip shines as bright as the invaluable jewels on his crow. His expression is open and gentle, hopeful.

Still, it is not the clothes, nor the jewels, nor their appearance that makes them the two most beautiful figures present. It is the way they look into each other’s eyes and seem to forget the world around them, it is the way they communicate without speaking, it is the way they smile at every turn like they can barely believe how fortunate they are.

Their joy is contagious. It is indeed a happy night.

Mistiel covers her mouth to muffle her laughter as she runs up a staircase; the lights diminishing and the songs lowering with each step she takes. She has challenged Mithion again in hide-and-seek and the ginger plans to win this time.

As the girl reaches the top of an ancient and no longer in use watchtower, she is greeted with whispered voices. She carries no torch, but the Moon is full and she has no trouble seeing. She turns a corner and her eyes fall upon an odd scene. But then again, Mistiel feels she shouldn’t be surprised.

Above forgotten floors and walls, a blanket of wild green grass, moss and weed grows, nursed by rain and protected by stone. Sitting against the barricade, there is a familiar pair. There are close, not quite touching.

The elf is the first to spot her, with his sharp eyes and uncanny ears, and the dwarf soon follows his friend’s gaze. If they are surprised to see her there, they do not show it, merely smiling and beckoning her closer.

“Suil!” Mistiel says confidently as she sits down in front of them, back resting on the opposite wall, a few feet away.

Legolas raises an eyebrow at that. “Greetings to you too,” he replies.

Gimli shakes his head and mumbles about annoying gibberish, but he does it with a small on his lips.

The young girl beams proudly. “A lady elf taught me that at the wedding,” she explains. “She said I am a quick learner.”

“That you are,” Legolas praises, and Mistiel grins in response. “How fares Master Faeldor?” The elf asks. “He seemed a bit…unwell when you introduced us.” 

Gimli snorts. “Try constipate,” he mutters.

Mistiel catches that and giggles. “He is well. I think he was simply surprised that my tales about you two were true.”

They grin at her, before the elf grows somber.

“And how fares your brother?” He enquires.

The girl smiles. “He is much better!” She declares. “He even came to the festivities tonight.” She then lowers her tone. “We are playing hide-and-seek,” she whispers, “I’m hiding.”

The elf nods at her understandingly.

“And how did you like the celebrations, lassie?” Gimli asks, as he retrieves a smocking pipe from a pocket and lights it up.

The elf grimaces and turns up his nose. He does not move away, though.

“It was amazing!” She replies with enthusiasm. “Queen Arwen was beautiful in her gown, even if she did not wear braids…”

The dwarf laughs at that. “Indeed she was,” he agrees. “But not as beautiful as her grandmother, the Lady Galadriel,” he says, a look of wonder in his eyes, hand clutching at his chest.

Mistiel cocks her head at that. “I did not see any old elves at the festivities,” she admits.

Gimli laughs loudly at that. Legolas looks affectionately amused at her. 

“She was not present, unfortunately,” the dwarf says, “but even if she was, you would not find her if you had been looking for a wrinkled old lady.” He pauses, blowing white circles of smoke. “Elves are immortal, it’s impossible to tell their age by merely looking at them,” he says categorically. “Even the youngest dwarflings know this, how come you, men, don’t?” He enquires, frowning.

Mistiel looks affronted at that. “I know elves are immortal,” she replies, crossing her arms. 

After a moment, she deflates, looking down. “I know that,” she continues, mumbling. And she did know. It’s just she had never stopped to think about what it actually meant, and as she finally did, cold dread grew in her heart. “It’s a bit strange, isn’t it?” The girl mutters at last, arms no longer crossed, but hugging her torso, as she drew he knees up. “To think one can be thousands of years old and still look as fresh and young as…” 

As Mistiel trails off, her eyes widen and her hand shoots out to point at Legolas.

“How old are you?” She asks, suspicion in her voice.

The elf laughs freely at that, closing his eyes in mirth. He says nothing. Mistiel thinks she prefers not to know, anyhow.

Gimli also seems amused by the girl’s astonishment. “You are from a race for whom time passes much too quickly,” he comments. 

The girl frowns at him. “Are dwarves immortal too?” She asks. She had never heard anything concerning that.

The dwarf chuckles. “No, nothing like that,” he reassures. “But we are longer lived than the other mortals. I myself am 139 years of age, and will not be considered elderly until I’m past 200.”

Mistiel lets her jaw fall at that. “The oldest person I know is Mrs. Pelilasseth,” she says quietly, “and she is ‘only’ 90.”

Before elf or dwarf can reply, the girl lets a wordless exclamation through her lips. They stare at her in worry as grey, young eyes fill with tears.

“But then what of Queen Arwen?” She asks in a fearful whisper. “She will be left behind when the king passes.” The girl rubs her eyes. “I think I begin to understand why there shouldn’t be marriages between different races,” she mumbles almost to herself.

They are silent after that. 

Gimli’s expression is thoughtful, if a bit resigned; he seems determined about something.

As for Legolas, he looks both very young and so very old at the same time, as a deep sadness contorts his features. He soon shakes it off.

“It’s her decision,” the elf says quietly, eyes lost to the stars that hang above them. “She is half-elven. She can have the men’s gift if she so chooses,” he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. 

Then Legolas lowers his gaze, staring directly into Mistiel’s soul. “But even if she was fully elven,” he continues, “even if she had no means to escape his loss, don’t you think her choice would remain the same?”

Mistiel thinks about the light in the queen’s eyes as she beheld her king.

Gimli doesn’t let her respond. He too has his eyes locked on her.

“And what of Aragorn?” He asks sharply. “Shouldn’t he have a say in this too? Or is he expected to remain silent and simply permit the one he loves most in the world waste away to grief?” His voice shakes with emotion. 

Mistiel thinks about the tenderness in the king’s eyes as he held his queen.

Neither dwarf nor elf is looking at the girl anymore. Their vicious glare is spent on one another.

“It is her choice,” Legolas says tersely, body as tense as a charged bow.

“It is his choice as well,” Gimli replies, words falling as heavy as a hammer.

They are at a standstill; neither side relenting.

If Mistiel finds it odd that they are arguing about whether or not Aragorn and Arwen are meant to be together hours after the wedding ceremony of the couple in question, she does not mention it. They are an odd pair, after all.

“You are right,” The girl suddenly says, as the answer comes to her. “Both of them had a choice,” she continues, as they turn to look at her. “And both of them chose to love the other for ever, for as long as forever might be.” The girl grins at them. “I think they made the right choice.”

Legolas smiles softly at her. “I think they made the right choice too,” he whispers, as if sharing a secret. He turns slightly to the dwarf at his side, a hint of apprehension in his expression.

When Gimli does nothing more than grunt half-heartedly, hope sparks in clear blue eyes.

The elf laughs merrily and starts singing a merry tune. The dwarf complains about half-witted elves always bursting into song, but sways in rhythm with the music.

Mistiel closes her eyes, content, resting her head on stone softened by grass. It’s peaceful there. She feels like falling asleep would be the most natural thing to do. Yawing, the young girl tries to pay attention to Legolas’ singing. Eventually she fails.

In her dreams, she hears a deep voice speaking. 

“The lassie has fallen asleep,” it says. She realizes it is Master Gimli.

He is not alone.

“So it seems,” another voice replies. It is Master Legolas.

Mistiel is almost falling deeper into slumber when she hears soft movement that brings her back. She imagines an elf rearranging his body to face a dwarf’s.

“Gimli, mellon nîn…” Legolas voice is wavering and hesitant.

“Careful, lad,” comes the curt reply, “or we will wake the girl.”

The other is undeterred.

“Gimli,” he continues quietly. “Please, my friend, let us speak of it once and for all.”

The girl can almost see the dwarf nodding in resignation. “Speak then,” is the mumbled acquiescence.

“My feelings run deeply for you,” the elf says without preamble. “And I believe–” He hesitates, before braving on. “I believe you feel for me too.”

There is a pause.

“Aye,” Gimli softly states. “And it is because I feel so much,” he continues, “that I refrained from approaching you, even as I realized…I might not be alone in my foolishness.”

Legolas’ laugh is like a hurried whistle. Mistiel imagines his eyes glinting.

“An elf and a dwarf? Foolishness indeed,” he concurs, even as he leans down a bit, grinning. In a blink of an eye he turns serious. “I think I understand now your hesitance,” he admits, “and I…appreciate it.”

Gimli is surprised at that admission. 

“Maybe it is possible to put some sense into an elf’s head after all,” the dwarf huffs teasingly, before becoming somber as well. “And I understand you have a choice,” he says, looking away. “But, still, I can’t bear the thought of causing you such pain.”

Legolas catches Gimli’s hands in his.

“No future is certain,” he says, “no life guaranteed. Pain shall await us, but so shall joy,” he halts, as if uncertain. “It may displease you to hear me say so, but the truth in my heart is that I’ll spend eternity missing you, regardless of your choice,” he reveals with certainty. “If I could, I would have good and happy memories to cherish and keep me from my loneliness.” 

“My heart grows heavy with such dark thoughts,” Gimli says after a long moment. He signs, but it is accompanied by a true smile. “I choose to be by your side; for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Forever, then,” Legolas replies.

And as Mistiel slowly awakens from her short rest, she opens her eyes to find a dwarf and an elf lost in an earnest kiss.

o.O.o

“After that, Gimli the dwarf and Legolas the elf left to travel through all of middle-earth. Mistiel saw them occasionally, when they came to visit the great King Elessar, from the house of Strider. In their absence, she heard many tales. Tales which spoke of the oddest pair of friends, facing many difficult challenges and quests, but always prevailing, for even in their darkest hours they had each other to rely on.” The old lady, paused, and turned to her granddaughter. 

“That is the tale of how your great-great-grandmother, after whom you were named, became friends with a dwarf and an elf.”

Young Mistiel was still far, far away. Lost in an age full of magic, and incredible battles, and mystical beings. Slowly she came back. The girl smiled with wonder.

“Where are Gimli and Legolas now, grandma?” She asked curiously.

“Oh, that is unknown,” the woman replied. “But it is said they took one last adventure together, and sailed into the ocean, in search of the Undying Lands of the elves.”

As Mistiel sleepily closed her eyes, she muttered:

“I hope they are still there, together, as they are meant to be.”

The old woman smiled and reached out to pull the covers on top of the sleeping girl.

“I like to think they are,” she murmured into the night.


End file.
